Saronite
by almostzombie
Summary: After the Siege, Alasir Owens washed up on his sister's doorstep a changed man. Of course, he had been declared dead by the Alliance military five years prior. Now, ten years after the fact, his sister finally insists on him explaining where he disappeared to all those years ago.
1. Secrets

**AN:** This starts out pretty slow, but will certainly pick up in later chapters.

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Part 1: Avalanche

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**Alasir**

Alasir didn't need to look at his calendar to know what day it was. The date was so ingrained in his mind that he seemed to have developed a sense for when it approached. The usual melancholy washed over him, pooling heavily in his stomach as he watched the sun poke itself into view. He winced as its golden rays streamed through the window of his bedroom, the light instantly flooding the place. His head reeled with the effects of the alcohol from the previous night, pain heightened by the gleaming sun. A decade ago, drinking was the last thing on his mind. But in recent years, he'd certainly begun to understand the appeal.

He had been awake for a while, simply laying in his own misery instead of gritting his teeth and bearing the day for what it was. The only thing Alasir hated more than what the date meant was confronting his sister on the way out the door. It was to be expected, though. The house was hers, and he was a 'guest.' Hauling himself up to a sitting position, he decided to get an early start. With a bit of luck, he'd be able to head out before she woke up.

Swinging both feet off the moaning bed, he made his way to the restroom, passing the aged furniture that kept guard about the room. He looked both ways in the doorway, careful to keep his weight on his toes as he walked. After working his way down the hall, and lightly knocking on the door, Alasir swung it open, immediately greeted with his own reflection. Well, however much of his image actually fit within the restraints of the mirror. The top edge of the mirror cut off at his neck, leaving his graying body fit for inspection. He leaned forwards on the sink, dropping to the point where his face was able to stare back at him.

He wasn't as young as he used to be, that much was apparent by his hair alone. He ran a hand through the greying strands, feeling a twinge of longing for the vibrate red it once was. His hand dropped from his hair to his chin, fingers exploring the growing creases. Eventually deep green eyes drifted past his aging face to his stump of a left arm, cut off right above the elbow. He immediately rolled his shoulders and looked away from the mirror. Shaking his head, he reeled his mind in from the inevitable as he began his annual routine.

By the time he had showered and groomed, the dawn rays had faded from the sky. He ran a hand down his face, brushing the drying hair out of his eyes. The cold shower had froze the drink out of him, leaving him sober to face the day. Biting his lip, he drifted to the next room over.

The next part of his routine was both the hardest and the easiest. As he approached the wooden cabinet that held his armor, he could feel his steps growing lighter. Alasir realized he was out of practice as he slid on a layer of mail. The last time he'd worn armor had been a year ago on the same date, the struggle to actually snap and squeeze himself into the mess of pieces growing in passing. But the feeling once it was on was more than worth it. He was more than aware it was impossible to relive the past, but he'd be dammed if this wasn't the second best thing.

Surprisingly, his old armor seemed to fit him year after year. Truth be told his body structure hadn't changed much. He was still freakishly tall, hardened muscles still covered with a light layer of fat. Part of him questioned why he fitted himself into the old look every year, but as soon as he looked in the mirror he remembered. The gold and white armor seemed to take years off his face, which he fully appreciated. But that wasn't all, it also made him feel younger; strong, like he used to be. He traced his fingers up the swirling, intricate designs, and down the notches and dents caused by five years of combat. He stood tall in the mirror for a few moments, before tearing himself away.

He clunked his way down the stairs of his childhood home, his best attempts to be stealthy foiled by the weight of his armor and the creak of ancient wood. He didn't want to repeat the drama of last year, but it seemed he might not have a choice. Unfortunately, as he headed for the door, he heard his name on a familiar voice ring behind him and throughout the hall. Alasir sighed, turning to face his sister.

Helen had aged as well. If he remembered correctly, she was thirty-five going on eighty. Even though he was some nine years her senior, she still managed to look significantly older than him. While she would deny any accusations of the fact, she was a shut in, living off the money the Alliance had granted her for his supposed 'death.' Her skin was borderline translucent, seeming to glow in light and shadow alike. She was obviously overweight. The little clothing she owned no longer fit her properly, hugging her body in the most awkward ways imaginable. Her hair was in a constant state of disarray, gnarls and knots coating the ends that draped above her shoulders. While Helen's body had softened, her face had hardened. They'd both inherited a wide, strong jawline from their father, and prominent cheekbones from their mother. Both features only now seemed to take a hold on her appearance.

But she still retained some of the qualities he remembered from their childhood. Freckled cheeks, soft lips, a gleaming smile. They were just hidden and buried below the shell of a person she'd become.

"You're leaving again?" The tone in Helen's voice alone brought a sour taste to the man's mouth. Her eyes flickered up and down his armor, "And in that?"

Alasir knew he was unwelcome here, the hostility festering with each passing year. His sister had changed dramatically since his first visit, when she was filled with ecstasy to see that he was, by some miracle, alive. However, her feelings waned over time, her joy replaced by a deep resentment once she realized he was the one who needed to be cared for, and that he never returned to actually visit her.

"That I am." He retorted, scratching his shoulder and shifting his weight, heavy armor echoing around him. From the way his sister shot daggers at him now, he could only assume he'd done something to really piss her off, and he had a sinking feeling he knew exactly what.

She remained poised like a cat, her body bristling with anticipation, "We should talk."

Letting out a sigh, Alasir realized his original assumptions about her confrontation were correct, "This is about last night?"

"Of course this is about last night!" She spat, "You can't just show up and ask to live with me. I don't care who you are, you can't just do that." Her eyes snapped shut and she pursed her lips.

Alasir made one last glance at the door before locking his eyes on his sister, "I'm your brother, I deserve some sympathy. I haven't even explained why I asked yet." He took a step away from his exit.

Her words were on him the second the last syllable left his mouth, "You don't deserve anything from me. You show up once a year purely to cause me pain. You should walk out right now and disappear again. Not like you haven't before. Fel, I don't even know why you keep coming back."

"Calm down, I never said you had to accept." He leaned on the wall, holding his hand up in a sigh of surrender. "You're over reacting. I should have known you'd deny me anyways, with how much you resent me. I shouldn't have asked in the first place, I'm sorry. I'll leave now, If you want me to." He gave her a half-hearted smile, only to have the expression melt off his face as she glared at him. She wasn't done with him yet.

"Resent you?" She tilted her head and crossed her arms, pushing her chest out and straightening her back. Taking a step closer, she questioned, "What makes you say that?"

He dropped his hand and raised an eyebrow, pushing himself off the wall, "I don't know, maybe the fact you've essentially spat on me the last few time I've come to visit."

"Oh, you hardly come to visit. You show up in the evening to drink, after you leave the next morning to stare at that stupid memorial all day. Then you pack your bags and leave. You hardly say a word to me at all." She stood her ground, arms folding tighter against her body.

Alasir stiffened. "You're changing the subject. You resent me."

Helen rolled her eye, dropping her hands to her side as they clenched into fists, "It's plenty on topic, unless our topic isn't 'Ways you've fucked me over.' You know what? Yes. I do resent you."

"Why?" He lumbered closer, glancing down at his sister. At this distance it was even easier to see their difference in height. Alasir always knew he was a beast of a man when it came to his height, but, compared to his sister, he seemed even taller.

When she didn't respond, he sighed, "Well, if your interrogation's over, I'll be headed out." He collected a few things, then turned towards the door, armor groaning under the sudden movement. It was not until his hand was on the doorknob did he hear her voice rising out of her throat like the plague.

"W-what makes me resent you? Is that seriously what you're asking?" Now that she was offered the chance, Helen spat venom, "I-I thought you were dead... Y-you, you vanished out of my life for five years, then you materialized on my doorstep a decade ago with the news you were still living, and that, hey, you're missing an arm and went through some very apparent mental trauma. And it's not like you're making any efforts to improve your situation or better yourself, either. When I offered to get you help, you declined. When I offered to house you, you declined. When I offered to do anything for you, you declined. And that's not the end of it either. You only show up at this exact date, once a year. That's all. No letters, nothing. You don't even make an attempt to converse with me while you're here. Then last night you make the astounding announcement that you want to move in with me. You can't expect me to take you up on that offer when I know next to nothing about you, Alasir."

She took in a deep breath, wiping her eyes as tears began to bubble up. "I just... Dammit, Alasir, you won't even tell me what happened. You fucked your life up, and you won't tell me how. If you want to live here I deserve to know what happened to my brother. I deserve to know more than you deserve to live here." Helen stomped her foot, the tears now flowing freely from her eyes.

"You won't even tell me how you lost your arm, or where you live." Her voice had dwindled from an angered roar to a pleading whisper. "Why are you holding so many secrets from me?"

Only when the room had been filled with Helen's quiet sobbing, instead of the echoes of her lecture, did Alasir come to realize he had begun to shake under her torrent. His head was hung low, any attempts to clear it having failed. Uncertain of how to continue, whether to reply, stand still, or just leave, he shuffled to her.

"Do you know what day it is?" He inquired, his voice lowered to the same volume as her last whisper. He extended his arm to rest his hand on her shoulder, leaning down to look her in the eyes. Helen was shaking almost as much as he was.

She shook her head, eyes still swelling with tears. In a single swooping movement, she burrowed into his chest, wrapping her arms tight against his back as she continued to cry.

Alasir frowned, patting her back, "Then we've certainly got a lot to talk about." She looked up at him with hopeful, watery eyes as she released her hug. Her head shook with a nod.

She followed like a ghost to the living room, where they both collapsed on the couch in a flurry of dust. The sun still beamed through the window, catching the dust and filling the room with floating light. He looked at her and she looked at him, and it was understood for Alasir to begin his story.


	2. Enter: Pesta

Rubbing his forehead, Alasir started, "Well, I guess the whole thing is pretty hard to explain, and you'll probably hate me even more afterwords." He shrugged, looking at his expectant sister for a reaction. She simply nodded and urged him to continue.

He briefly bit his lip, then continued. "The whole thing started about fifteen years ago, really, right after I'd been sent to Northrend with the Argent Crusade. This was after the war against the Scourge, though. I was part of the clean-up crew, sorta. It wasn't bad at first, but, eventually, I ran into some people I wish I hadn't met, and things fell apart. 'Course I'm not the only one who really matters in this story either."

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15 Years Ago

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**Pesta**

Yes, he was a death knight. That fact was undeniable, engrained in his mind, and he certainly faced the consequences. In the end, Pesta figured he deserved every single negative occurrence that came to him. He'd committed heinous war crimes under his slavery to the Lich King, and he intended to atone for every sin through blood and iron. If that meant getting beat by a resentful paladin in a back alley, then so be it. However, he couldn't help but wonder if this was a bit much.

Pesta laid sprawled in the most unnatural position possible, a mass of limbs and armor and fur cloak on the floor of the inn. His ankle-length black hair splayed around him in a hazardous array. Rolling his head to the side, the blood elf was able to inspect the growing pool of blood that encircled him. He squinted at its dark, almost black color, assuring it was actually his blood.

Reaching down, Pesta trailed his hand down his chest and stomach to find the source of the fluid. Sticking out of his torso, to the left of his belly button, he found it. Proud and hard, the decretive queue pillar stuck out of his white skin, pointed towards the arching roof of the inn. He tilted his head down and traced his eyes up the pole, resting on its sharpened end. Sighing, he wondered who thought pointed wood sticks made good decoration.

He lulled his head back to stare up at the faces looming over him, recounting the events in his head. He frequented this inn, not to spend the night or rest, but to supply the Dalaran innkeeper with goods from the surrounding landscape. The threat of the Scourge was still at large, even after the fall of the Lich King, and it was still dangerous for anyone but battle hardened-veterans to leave the city alone. Alongside missions for the Ebon Blade, he'd make some small cash off of bringing back different herbs and meats and furs, and it was enough for him. Plus, he never minded the long trips, alone in the snow was the best place for a death knight to satisfy the violent urges they all had.

The city was a hard place for the undead. The destruction and pain the Scourge had caused was still fresh in the mind of Dalaran's citizens, and Pesta was hyper aware of this fact. He was careful to spend as little time as possible interacting with others, typically only approaching when asked. He kept his head down, his eyes aflame with blue, scourge magic as obscured as possible.

Now he was the center of attention, face up, bleeding on the floor as the murmurs grew louder and the faces closer. It'd been a normal evening. He had lurked his way through the city, stopping at the inn to drop off some Icethorn he had gathered from the Storm Peaks. The trip had been eventless enough, just the average stray ghoul and a harsh blizzard. Nothing he couldn't handle. The city had been a bit harder on him than normal, the glares harsher and the words sharper, but it wasn't anything he wasn't used to. But this. This he couldn't handle. Somehow, upon entering the inn, he'd managed to trip on his own obnoxiously long hair, bang his forehead on the nearest surface, and impale his stomach on the queue pole.

He was a shame to Death Knights everywhere, being clumsy enough to trip, and allowing his foreign blood to spill across what seemed like half the inn's wooden floor. The Ebon Blade might as well banish him now. The elf felt not pain from the pole prodding out of his stomach, but mental pain from extreme embarrassment. Closing his eyes as the voices enclosed around him, he sat up, quickly slipping the pole out of his stomach. More black blood spilled from the wound to join the rest on the floor.

Pesta rose steadily to his feet, hair and armor drenched with his own bodily fluids. Somehow, the stick had found its way to the only part of his body that wasn't covered in a thick layer of black plate-mail. His ears flattened against his head as he dared to lift his eyes to inspect the faces of those surrounding him.

He was relieved to see one of the faces was the innkeeper, her brow furrowed into a look of concern and worry. The older high elf woman extended her arms, floating her boney hands to his shoulders. While he didn't know her name, he could still feel the sympathy in her touch, and gentleness in her voice as she asked if he was alright. Shaking her off, he nodded at her, then turned to examine the other people.

It was the usual variety, a mass of seven people who had nothing better to do than loom over him, eyes glued to his black armor. Night elf, Troll, it didn't matter. Dalaran was neutral, as was its inn, but he detested them all the same. Eventually, as he stood and looked between them, they walked off to their previous positions with a dirty glare. All except one.

The human, wearing white robes with golden edging and jewelry, was an obvious man of the Light. His autumn hair was slicked back with grease over his scalp, leaving his piercing hazel eyes free to look down on anyone he passed. With a sly smirk, he spoke, "The Scourge had to have lowered standards a bit, to raise one as short as you are."

Pesta gave him the usual bitch face. Elongated eyebrows arched, his head tilted slightly to the left, ears twisted forwards to catch every word. It was true, he was short, especially by blood elf standards. He barely brushed a height of five foot five, but he was five foot five enough to fuck up this priest's shit. He formulated his retort, but the innkeeper beat him to it.

"Hush, you! He served us well in the war against the Scourge, and continues to do so, which is more than can be said of you." He felt her anger roll into his back, turning his back to the priest to look up at her.

She was taller than him as well, which mattered little as he grumbled in his hollow voice, "You don't need to defend me. I can, er, do that part myself. Let's clean up this mess." He glanced over his shoulder to sneer at the man as he gestured for the innkeeper to leave and gather supplies.

The man shouted at the innkeeper as she scrambled to the supply closet behind her desk, "And, Carla, look at the mess he's made! He's had to have frightened away some business for you. You shouldn't associate with his kind, they're dangerous." He ran a hand down his grease-infused hair, face twisting into a disapproving scowl.

Pesta tried his best to tune out the man's various as he examined the mess. His blood had seeped into the wood and carpet, deep enough to where a simple mop and bucket wouldn't do. There was a way to pick up the blood, but with the priest still there it wasn't an option. His mind ran through the cost of wooden plating, and a new carpet. The elf cringed in on himself, the price was too extreme. So against his better judgement, Pesta drew his blade.

Half the inn gasped as the rune-engraved metal slid off his back. The sword was almost as long as he was tall, silver titanium decorated with three runes near the tip. Thick horns curled off the base of the hilt, leading back to an animal's skull melded to a plate of metal. A single piece of faded, aged cloth was tied to the end of the hilt. The blade wasn't the most unique of swords, but it was his, and he certainly made some modifications to make it his own.

He looked up at Carla, which was apparently the innkeeper's name, and nodded, reassuring her no one was in any danger. She had frozen in her movements to approach him, but her eyes remained wide to watch his every movement.

The priest screeched as he went for his staff. "He's a monster, you see! He'll slaughter everyone here, like he's slaughtered countl-."

Pesta cut him off, the sharpness in his echoed voice only matched by that of his blade. "Don't tell me things I already know." And with that, the runes on his blade lit up the same blue as his Scourge-fire eyes. The room hummed with energy as he held out his blade, his drenched hair even managing to bristle at the ends. His eyes snapped shut as he took in a deep breath. Slowly, small drops of his black blood began to lift out of the ground, hovering in the air as his sword glowed light blue.

The priest was pressed against the nearest wall, the only one besides the innkeeper still in the main atrium, patrons having returned to their rooms. "T-that's blood magic! Disgusting!" With one last pointed look at Pesta, he turned and escaped out the nearest door.

The death knight rolled his eyes and stood as still as possible while his blood lifted out of the wood and carpet, leaking up his body to his wound. While he'd done and experienced a lot of icky things, he doubted he would ever get used to the feeling of old blood dribbling up his body. But it was a necessary nasty. He could hear the slight sizzling as the blood attacked the cut, healing it to the best of its ability.

The flow of blood out of the ground slowed then halted, the last few drops scattering up his body and disappearing under his chest plate. He dropped his sword and sighed, looking down at his work. If it was possible, the floor looked even cleaner than before. The carpet and wood where his blood had soaked through shone in the orange candle light. He rubbed his stomach before reattaching his sword on his back. He looked up at Carla, rubbing his goatee with his gloved hand. "Good enough for you?"

Her eyes flickered between the floor and his face. She was shaking slightly, her earrings waving back and forth as she approached him. Her arms were bent, hands pawing at her blonde hair. Carla stammered, "Y-yes I think that will do!"

She dared not step closer than the desk, biting her lip as her limbs locked into place. She stumbled over her words, "Y-you want a r-room? T-to clean up?" Her eyes blinked in a sort of spasm, fiddling with a drawer before pulling out a key and throwing it at him.

"T-there the key to your room! It's f-free, don't worry." She laughed nervously before vaporizing into a door behind her desk that he assume was a supply closet.

Pesta caught the key, rolling it in his hand as he stood alone in the inn. He had watched the fierce, fiery innkeeper shift into a nervous girl in the course of five minutes, and it didn't take a genius to figure out it was because of him. People only liked him until they saw what he could do. He let out a long sigh, at least he got something for free, and at least it wasn't necromancy.

He trudged up the stairs. His hair and armor was free of blood, he'd sucked it back into his body during the scene he made downstairs. Although no longer weighed down, he could still feel the sticky residue around his wound. Infection certainly wasn't a problem for him, but he still preferred his scars to be clean.

He swung open the door to his room with ease, the key fitting in the slot as expected. The room was cold, clean, spotless. The entire room was illuminated by the glowing Northrend moon, the white sheets and curtains reverberating with moonlight. Heavy shadows decorated the room, woven and intertwined between the minimalistic furniture. The room consisted of a bed, nightstand, lamp, and a cabinet. A door to the bathroom decorated the left wall. But perhaps the most striking characteristic of the room was the massive mirror that occupied the wall opposite the window. The flat look of the room contrasted with the rustic, homely vibe of the rest of the inn. He supposed it was to add flavor.

As soon as he slammed the room shut, his armor was off him, collecting in a liquid pile at the foot of the bed. Soon, he stood nude in the moonlight, the only other light in the room smoking off the blue runic tattoos that encircled his body.

His hair flew behind him as he stepped in front of the mirror to inspect the damage. While his face was relatively clean of issue, his body was laced with scars, his fresh cut fitting in with his torn chest. He traced his hands up and down the numerous stitchings, remembering lost wounds, lost battles, and lost friends. The straight black hair suited him, he thought. After the events of the day, the thought of cutting it was on the front of his mind. But as he ran his hands through the tangled strands the thought faded. He adjusted it so it ran over a single broad shoulder, finally drawing his attention to his wound.

His blood had done a good job of fixing up the wound. Prodding the swollen flesh with his finger, Pesta decided to leave it alone for the time being. He instead opted to examine his reflection in the mirror.

It'd been years since he'd truly looked at himself. Busy in both the war against and for the Scourge, his appearance was far from a dire issue. But now that the war was mostly over, Pesta was grateful he hadn't got torn up as bad as some of his comrades. Instead of the horrible green and black of rot, his already light skin had turned to an almost luminous white from undeath. Fitting for the Northrend landscape. He suffered in other areas, his body almost appearing stitched together from the cluster-fuck of scars that littered his body. And of course, there were the tattoos. Two sets, one from life and one from death. The black bands that coated his chest, wrists, and legs had faded with time, a memoir to his time as a Ranger. The other group, the horrible blue ones that matched his eyes were a memory of a darker time. He scratched his head and turned away from the mirror, opting to clean up.

Once he had refitted his armor on his body, he sat in the window seal, looking out over the impressive view of the city. The spires and domes of Dalaran were iconic of the city, awed over by any and all visitors. But to Pesta, the vaguely elven style of the city made him uneasy, but none the less beautiful. The yellow lights cast vibrant rays on the red cobblestone, casting the city in an orange light. Even with its best efforts, the orange glow was still drowned out by the overwhelming flood of the moon. He rested his head against the wall, melting against the glass and achieving the closest thing to sleep he could muster.

But the elf's rest was cut off by the rising voices in the hotel's bar below. He immediately swung off the window and headed towards the door, latching his sword to his back on his way out. If there was a chance to make the Ebon Blade look good, he wasn't gonna miss it.

In his absence, the inn had been infected with new life. Men and woman alike filled the melting pot of a bar, every crevice and square-foot filled with some sort of being. Of course, the density of flesh was heavier around the far door to the bar. He tried his best to look over the heads, but even with the stairs on his side, he was unable to see anything. Carla shot a wary look at Pesta as he thudded down the stairs. He shrugged and turned his attention to what brought him downstairs in the first place, the yelling.

It seemed the entire bar, every patron included, was focused on whatever was going on, and only when he heard the arguing voices did he realized how dire the situations was.

"Lass, I'll have the guards on ye in a heartbeat! You stole that necklace!" A light dwarfish accent drifted over the inn as Pesta's foot connected with the ground floor of the establishment. He perked up his ears, wanting to catch any other words said. If there was any way to make a profit off of this, or better the Ebon Blade, he'd find it. Murmuring filled the room.

Then, a woman's voice lifted above the crowd, "T-There's no need for guards, I haven't stolen anything, dammit! These accusations are absolutely crazy!" Her voice was soft, yet curt.

More murmuring.

The next time one of the two voices rose against the crowd, it was more of an echo. "Tell that to the guards, lass." People began to break away from the group, taking their whispers to more secluded places. The worst of the drama was over, and disappointment filled the room.

Eventually, a panicked draenei broke through the crowd, overwhelmed by the amount of people who heard the dwarf's words against her. She quickly looked over her shoulders then made her way to the bar, ordering a drink and pulling her hood up around her head. Pesta made his assumptions, and watched her.

The draenei rested, defeated, on the bar, her head hanging low above the wood as she pulled her hood up. She scooted onto the chair, and an idea began to fill Pesta's mind. After the threat of the dwarf, she'd certainly need to get out of the city, and soon.

Now was his chance.

The patrons seemed to left a circle clear around her, surely uncomfortable after the accusations against her. For once, the eyes shifted to her instead of him as he stepped into the empty space around her.

She was average height, for a draenei, but she somehow seemed larger than she appeared. Pesta wasn't sure if it was her arching horns or her poised posture that created the illusion, but that mattered little, for it wasn't her height that caught his eyes. The draenei was corpulent in the best way imaginable, impossibly wide hips curved out from an equally impossibly thin waist. Wavy white hair, long enough to rival his, cascaded out of her hood, seeming to float and hover around her figure. The woman's tail lay limp, circling around her womanly hips to rest in her lap with her hands. Soft, dark flesh hugged her figure, very visible due to her lack of clothing. He suspected she was topless, her long back fully exposed except for the hint of a necklace on her shoulders. Her pants were black and white and vertically striped, the fabric cut out around her ass to fit a thong instead. Despite his undead self no longer being interested in the pleasures of the flesh, he found it difficult to tear his eyes away from her. As he grew closer, he noticed the radiant gleam of polish on her horns and hooves, reflecting the flickering candle light. She was a hurricane, the room seeming to cool and twist around her, her shadow long and purple on the wooden ground.

The heavy clunk of his armor must have finally been enough to alert her to his position, as she turned in her seat to face him. He caught a glimpse of full, dark lips fitted to a wide face as she spoke, "Do you want something?" She glanced over her shoulder, back at him, "I haven't much time."

Pesta froze for a second, she was most definitely topless, before shaking his head and responding, "I can help you."

She laughed, her trilling voice filling his ears, "And what do you think you can help me with. elf?"

He twitched. Maybe this wasn't as good of an idea as he thought, but something compelled him to continue despite his urges to turn on his heels and run. "I know this city and this continent better than anyone, really. I can get you out."

Her demeanor shifted, curiosity filling what little of her face was visible, "Oh? And for what cost?" She curled in her shoulders, making her breasts appear bigger than they already were.

Pesta eyed her up and down. She certainly had a lack of clothing, but what she wore was new and clean. The even stitches and vibrant fabrics suggested high quality. Two necklaces decorated her neck, one with large, black orbs that hid the points of her chest, and one that fell into her cleavage, its thin gold chain and intricate charm unfitting for the rest of her outfit. With a second glance, he realized it was missing a stone. "Money. I want money. You obviously have it."

"Oh, money's just what you're asking for? Isn't that a bit boring?" She tilted her head, she pouted her plump lips and batted her eyes, tail twisting around her thigh. She crosses her arms, pressing her supple breasts together, the stone-less necklace cradled between the heavy flesh. Her long, white hair curled down her body as she reached up to twirl a lock."I could give you so much more. A death knight like you, you have to be very lonely." She trailed a delicate finger down his chest and gave him a smile.

Pesta stared blankly at her, "No, I want your money."

She glanced over her shoulder to view the guards entering the far side of the bar. She quickly stiffened. Her posture hardened, her smile dropped, and she uncrossed her arms. Her hand drifted to hidden pocket on her side, pulling out an amount of gold Pesta hadn't expected, even from her. "Very well, it's worth a shot. We should head out now."

He quickly snatched his gold and nodded, gripping her arm and pulling her out the opposite exit.


	3. Enter: Muurie

Helen itched at her nose, growing disinterested with his story by the second. Her posture remained stern as she criticized him, "I don't see why this is relevant. It doesn't explain anything."

"I haven't gotten to the explaining part yet." He rolled his eyes, leaning back against the back of his seat. "It takes some set up, you know? I can't just jump right into it and expect things to make sense to you."

She sighed, "Very well, then." Huffing, she averted her eyes to glare at the wall behind him. "She was bad news, wasn't she? The draenei?"

Alasir laughed nervously, partially glad she was actually listening to him, "Y-yeah, she was bad news alright. That's an understatement, that's an understatement."

* * *

**Muurie**

He'd found her out. Muurie knew from the second the dwarf's eyes fell on the stoneless chain around her neck that she'd be caught. His accusations were, of course, correct, although with some minor inconsistencies on his part with how she'd obtained it. It mattered little, though. If she had stuck around she would have been caught, and whoever was in charge of her case would have learned the whole story, fast.

Part of her wondered how valuable, or powerful, the necklace really was, to draw such a reaction from the dwarf. Part of her also wondered how wise it was to follow the death knight.

He certainly knew his way around the city, at least. She thought to herself as she was pulled and yanked around corners by the small elf. Slowly, the sound of guards behind them faded. As her arm threatened to dislocate from her shoulder, she was swung around another corner. Cold air rushed into her face as she followed close behind him him. She wasn't sure how long they ran, but her breath was starting to come in short gasps and the heat from her body pressed against the chilly air.

"Watch it!" He hissed, suddenly halting his movements and letting go of her hand. She tore past him. Confused, Muurie wondered what his warning was in reference too, then she looked forwards.

She stopped short at the towering edge of the city in a flurry of hair and arms. Glancing to her left, she saw her blood elven companion do the same. They hovered for a second, toes threatening to tip and pull them over the side. Once she'd gained her balance and gathered her breath, she looked down.

Only when she dared peer over the side was she reminded of how high up the floating city really was. It was a sheer drop, the frigid air whistling as it rushed up to assault her face. The terrain below had been reduced to an endless hazy mass of blue and grey and white. If she squinted, it was possible to make out the thick outline of a river below.

Muurie stumbled back and away, panting as she shook her head. "T-there's no way." She swallowed her breath, fanning her face with her hand, "No way out of this.

She'd been pulled to the outskirts of the city, the graveled ground ending in small grassy medium before the edge. Buildings were to the back of the pair, the two having squeezed through a nearby alley to achieve their position. A lone lamppost guarded the corner. The lightbulb pulsed periodically, needing to be changed.

A sinking suspicion this was really the end boiled in her gut. Any minute now the guards would come crashing over the horizon, arresting her and her elven companion. She had to say, despite the fact they'd inevitably be caught, that it was a good last effort. She'd lost her breath in the scramble, which was impressive in itself, but that they'd somehow gained ground from the guards was even more so. She'd had a good run, nodding her head in understanding defeat as she sunk against the nearest wall. Her staff clattered against the stone.

The elf pulled the curtain of black hair out of his eyes as he looked between her and the ground impossibly far below. He crouched on the edge, grey armor heaving with the movement. With a quick glance over her shoulder, he raised his eyebrow, "You say that, but, uh." He shoved an arm into the open air and pointed a finger down.

A look of newfound horror washed over the draenei's face. She gaped, "Y-you can't be serious. That's easily a half mile drop there's no way we'd..." Her voice trailed off as her companion basked in the absolute glory of his plan, his ears perking up as he rose to his feet. She gripped onto the nearest object, which happened to be a lamp post, to provide support as she cringed in on herself.

"But I am. With a bit of luck we'd hit the river. And with a bit more luck it won't be, uh, frozen over. Friend who's done this before said something about the fall slowin' towards the end. Something about the city's magic floating shit. I mean she was trying to kill herself, but still." He fluffed out his cloak before resting his hands on his hips.

He continued, as the faint sound of clinking metal grew closer, "Not like you have much of a choice. You've already followed me this far. And, uh, you're running out of time." The flat, rolling tone in his voice only helped to tug at her nerves.

Leaning forward off her steady pillar, she spat, "Do you have a death wish or something?"

"Yes," He sighed, not missing a beat. Back still turned to her, he extended a hand. "Do you wanna get off this rock or not?"

The sound of guards crashed closer and closer, until the ringing of metal filled her ears and echoed against the surrounding stone. She slowly rose to her hooves, shaking her head as her apprehension washed away. Muurie had always considered herself a survivor, now she was just taking it into her own hands. Steadying herself, she ran a hand down her arm, collected her staff, and gripped his hand. She offered a nod before steadying herself besides him. She'd done worse.

"They're over here!" Four or five guards stumbled around from the building's corner, armor shinning with starlight as they closed in. Their tabards and swords were water as Muurie pulled her eyes away.

Muurie turned to her companion, hair flying behind her, "We go on three?" She readjusted her necklace and leaned over he edge, closing her eyes shut before she got a glimpse of the ground.

"We go now." And with his words she was pulled over the edge, her balance failing as the elf took the leap.

Her hand tore from his the second she felt her hooves leave the ground. She immediately clenched her staff, determined to not lose one of her most prized possessions even in the moments before her supposed death. Eyes still shut, Muurie spread her arms out to the side. Her legs lifted behind her. Cold air bit dents into her cheeks, whipping her hair up behind her in a waterfall of white. Her body had caught the wind and she was weightless as she soared. The wind howled, violent in her ears. Fangs bit into the moist purple of her lips as her eyes were forced open to stare at the ground rushing up to meet her. The usual hitch in her stomach hit her as she gasped for air that never came. Her heart threatened to burst from her chest as she began to make out more features on the ground. Crystalsong Forest moved and glowed white around her, the crystalline trees but a blur in her plummet.

There was a river, alright, and they were right above it. She could barely make out the ripples on the surface as it approached, at least she wouldn't be falling into a river that was completely frozen over. She tried to push the iced banks of the river out of her mind.

She hadn't anticipated the slow in her fall. A few hundred feet above the watery depths her momentum began to slow. Unnoticeable at first, but her plummeting speed eventually decreased to a more manageable rate. But the draenei was still falling. She managed to swing her legs beneath her in the seconds before she plunged into the river, sending her hooves into the torrent first.

Cold couldn't begin to describe the temperature of the water. Composed of the runoff of the glaciers of the Storm Peaks, the icy wetness was just above the freezing point. Softened ice slammed into her skin as she was engulfed in the fluid, leaving darkened bruises in its wake. Her ankle cracked against a rock, the sharp bout of pain soon swallowed by the cold. Hair and clothing dragged her down. Any effort to pull herself to the surface was thwarted by her numbing limbs. One of her arching horns scratched against the inner bank, followed immediately by her staff repeating the motion. Muurie opened her eyes as the impact shook her. She reached up to the rippling surface, only to find it too far out of her grasp. Bubbles rose and danced above her, popping on the water's roof as she sank farther into the watery abyss. She watched the moonlight fade above her as she drifted away. She embraced the cold as it held her.

Then she tried to breathe. Water filled her lungs and it sent her into a panic. Her once placid limbs began to fight, twisting and turning in rhythm in an attempt to pull her to the surface. Bruised from the fall and numb from the cold, her arms and legs weren't in the position to be pulling her out of a moving river, but they did it anyways. Once her hand found a firm grip and dry air, she knew she'd won. Using every once of strength left in her heat-robbed body, she hauled herself onto the snow and dirt, collapsing into a fit of sobs and coughs as she expelled the water from her body.

Muurie rolled onto her back, taking in heavy breaths of increasingly frigid air as the last gulps of water dribbled out of her mouth. The woman laid silent on the river bank, twinges of feeling leaving her body with the breeze. She didn't drown, but the cold was rolling in on the wind, perhaps an even greater danger than the gaping maw of the river. Prying fingers trailed down her bare chest, the phantom motion giving her the impression it wasn't her numb hands touching her skin.

The night sky above her was pitch, not even the light of the moon and stars able to pierce the impending darkness. White trees rustled with wind around her, contrasting the black mountains in the fringes of her vision. Her stolen necklace rested like a boulder on her chest, her tarnished staff next to her a harbinger. The towering mountains and trees of Crystalsong Forest closed in, circling her form as she forced herself awake.

With a last shaky breath, she sat up, quickly checking around her for her elven companion. When it was clear he was no where to be found, she shifted her focus to promoting her own survival. Her prospects were dim, but if she could manage fire she might be able to make it without losing her life. She stumbled to her feet, only to crumple back to the ground in a heap of quivering flesh. A quick glance at her legs told her why.

The bone between her left hoof and first joint stuck out of her skin, the white bone catching the light of the moon while purple blood oozed around it. She reached a shaking finger down to touch it. She couldn't feel either motion. Muurie held her hand up. She watched the blood drip like wine down her palm, then glanced back to her wrecked ankle. Fighting back the need to vomit, she tore the black fabric away to get a better look at the wound. Once the wound had been cleared of the cloth, blood began to slip and spill over the ground, staining the snow purple.

She tore off more strips of fabric, setting it aside for when she finished. Her eyes glued to the wound as she bent her knee. Her crying ankle was pulled to her, the new wound staring up at her. Biting her lip, Muurie pressed her hand against the white of her bone, immensely grateful the water had completely numbed her parts of her body. She used her other hand to hold her hoof still as she pushed her weight down on the bone. With a sickening squelch, her flesh moved and curled around the bone, the white soon fading under a wave of pulsing purple.

Muurie drew her hands back shaking, her already dark flesh even darker with the deep color of her blood. Gathering the strips she had pulled off her clothing, she slowly began to wrap them around her ankle. Certain to bind herself tight enough to keep the bone somewhat in place, but not too tight as to suffocate the wound, she tied the fabric into a clean knot. She plunged her unfeeling hands into the water to wash them of blood.

While under any other circumstances she'd stop and cleanse her blood and ankle with whatever Light she could bring upon it, the threat of losing said ankle to frostbite was more urgent. So steadily, she rose. Using her staff as a crutch, she stumbled into the glowing forest, looking for the first shelter she could find in the hopes she'd survive the rest of the night.

Crystalsong Forest was a basin of sorts. Barricaded off by mountains on all sides, crystalline life flourished in the enclosed land. The white trees were everywhere, and grew thicker the closer they were to the mountains. Everything seemed to glow as Muurie slowly worked her way deeper into the woods, the white light catching the frozen droplets of water on her skin. The branches soon covered the moon, the only light glowing from the trees themselves.

As she wandered, and in turn got her blood circulating, the feeling slowly began to creep back into her body. It started in her fingers and tail, then trailed up her arms and legs to her core. The first tendrils of pain began to rip and tear at her body, her steps slowing and her movements requiring more and more effort. She panted, gritting her teeth as she forced herself to move on. There had to be something out there to help her, be it her companion or a dry outcropping where she could start a fire. So far, she was out of luck.

Fire shot up her leg, the ring around her vision blurring with every blast. Her steps shook her body, sending her into pained gasps each time her hoof connected with the ground. Any water remaining on her body had frozen into icy droplets against her skin, leaving the dark purple with an icy coating. Slowly, her senses slipped. The white around her became pink and red, the whistling air forming screams. She was engulfed in heat.

Her eyes slowly looked up from her hooves. She was no longer in the winterland of Crystalsong. The sparking flames, the fresh dirt ripped into the ground, the glowing purple crystals smoking in the ground. Her knees immediately shook and crumpled and she was brought to the ground. Tail pressed against her body, she cupped her hands over her ears to drown out the growing screams. Hissing pieces of charged metal surrounded her as she drew her eyes higher and higher. They shot open when they found a focus point. She scampered back against the dirt behind her as she stared at the ruins of the Exodar. The once might ship had dug a canyon into the ground where it had crashed, the towering mountain of dirt and rock behind her the result.

Shaking her head, Muurie curled in on herself. She bit her lip as to not join the chorus of pained voices around her. Her eyes shuttered closed, splotches of red and pink clouding her vision against the black backdrop. She rocked herself, a sudden calm washing through her body like the cold.

Only to be jostled and shaken by a hand violently grabbing at her shoulder. Her eyes snapped open, the draenei half expecting to be covered by rubble. Instead, she was back in the forest, on the ground and back pressed against one of the white trees. Her elven companion crouched before her as he nonchalantly shook her shoulder.

"Ah, you're not dead yet?" He tilted his head, lifting his hand from her shoulder, watching as she stirred from her blackout.

She sat up against the tree, pushing her arms back while still shivering and still in pain. Her hair had fallen in front of her eyes, long white tendrils pooling in and off her lap, falling to the ground. Pulling her hair out of her eyes, she glared up at him, one hand shooting out to grip his upper arm,"Why'd you follow me?"

"You're paying me for this so you can bet your ass I'm going to come after ya." He hissed through his teeth, ears flattening as if he was threatened. He immediately settled, but still seemed disgruntled as he shrugged her hand off.

"Come on, I've got shelter for ya. Like five minutes from here." Voice firm and borderline mocking, he gripped her shoulder and rolled his eyes. His firm hand drifted from her shoulder to her wrist to her waist as he shouldered her weight and pulled her to her feet.

There were a million things she wanted to spit at him. He was the one who'd pulled her into this position, bruised her body, snapped her ankle. It was his idea to send them over the edge, and his desperate actions that almost ended her life. She shook her head, her gut boiling. But when she went to chastise him, empty words fell from her mouth, "O-okay."

The elf's right arm hung lifelessly at his side, swaying with his black hair as they moved. She noted that his armor was peculiarly dry. Even though she'd been out of the water for some time, her clothing still held moisture that his lacked.

The draenei's eyes lulled as she shook her head awake. They rocked through the forest step-in-step until the duo hung under one of the larger trees in the region. She blindly rested on him until he slipped his arm from under her, disappearing into the knotted mass of glowing roots underneath one of the larger trees. Muurie swayed after him, ducking underneath the pillars and immediately dropping into a husk on the cool soil. Her staff clattered stiffly against the soil as it rolled out of her grip.

White roots arched around them in a make-shift temple, adequate enough at keeping the snow and wind out. The dirt breathed soft against her sore skin. The smell of fresh moss wafted through the room. Appreciative of the solid roots twisting above her, she hugged her legs to her chest. Her weeping ankle was finally able to rest. She lacked the energy to move or twitch as she felt the dry, coarse fur of his cloak crumple over the icy skin on her back.

He shrugged, before looking down at her, his eyes hovering and lingering on her bloody ankle, "I'll, uh, make a fire or something. The living like that I think." Footsteps withered behind her as he trudged off with the crunch of plate armor.

Muurie hugged her new blanket, the fur scratching at her bare skin. Damp hair still clung to her face and back, damp cloth still stuck to her legs, but things were going to pull through. She let out a final shiver beneath the cloak before she felt the first signs of warmth growing in her core. Her eyelids drooped further, leaving her to squint at the luminous white roots. They lit the small burrow, arching just high enough to where she could comfortably crouch without dragging her horns across the crystal. She scooted back against the wall, careful to leave room for her pending fire. Her eyes now rested shut, Muurie was pulled into a light sleep.

Only when the heat of fire flickered against her face did she flutter open her eyes. She rolled awake, barely conscious as she stared at the dancing red. The flame was boiling hot against her face and engulfed her waking vision. Her companion, a blurred black figure, sat on the far side. His back was pressed against the white, smoking blue eyes glued to the entrance.

He only noticed her when she stirred. His eyes looked her up and down as he raised an eyebrow, "Well, now that I know you're alive and I won't have to loot ya for my payment, I'll make my way outside."

The elf started to crawl out of the burrow, avoiding the fire the best he could. His black plate armor alive with the movements of the crackling flame, he backed through the opening. But before he could finish pulling himself out of the room, Muurie mustered the energy to speak. "Y-you, what's your name?"

He poked his head back into the room, brow furrowed and ears flattened against his head, "I doubt it really matters to you, but it's Pesta."

"Pesta, hm?" She nodded slowly as the name rolled off her tongue, pulling the cloak back over her shoulders. "That's a horrible name. Mine's Muurie, significantly less horrible."

"I didn't ask you for a name." His voice trailed off, head falling out of view as he slid himself out through the roots.

Muurie slipped back into unconsciousness while watching Pesta sharpen his blade, the dull scratch of metal lulling her into a deep sleep. The death knight sat in the opening they'd squeezed through, his armored form preventing anything from going in, or out, of the room. A strange feeling washed through her stomach, one she hadn't felt since her days on Oshu'gan. Nothing could get to her in this burrow, she was protected on all sides by the branches. The heat of the fire pressed firmly against her face. She felt safe, she supposed, at least for the moment. Curling into the cloak, she reminded herself to not get used to it.

* * *

**AN: **Just to make this clear, this will tie together soon. The entire story is a flashback sorta thing.

Also, this is still really slow.


End file.
